Night
by biggerboat
Summary: A series of scenes from the Shatterdome after hours - because something about the dark brings the truth out in people.
1. Scene 1

_In through the nose. Out through the mouth._

_In the nose. Out the mouth. In, then out, and in, then out, and tonight will be over and you'll settle down to sleep._

Except Hermann never slept on problems. He thought about them. And thinking propagated thinking, propagated dwelling, propagated obsessing, propagated lying wide bloody awake at half past three in the morning.

Twice he covered his head with the pillow. Once he longed for a bath. He entertained the notion in passing of a heist on Pentecost's quarters, to see if whatever he kept in that pill box could make a man drowsy. Anything to stop with the breathing exercises.

He wrote it off as soon as it had hit him. Absurd. The kind of thing his colleague would come up with. But as he kneaded his hair and lay back against the sheets for the twentieth time, he veered away from calculus.

_His colleague_.

Hermann frowned. _What about him?_ Still in the lab, he supposed. He sat with the stillness of the room for a minute and found it… for once… disquieting.

And lonely.

Not alone. Lonely.

Only one thing had worked before, and he would take it to his grave. Desperate measure. Desperate time. Either this or the insomnia would kill him.

The worktable rattled under his weight as he got to his feet. He searched for the light - switched it on - good. His red bathrobe from the last Shatterdome hung beside the door, limp like an old tea towel.

It took him all his strength to stumble forth, sling it over his shoulder, and stumble back, and he capsized into bed beside it. When the blood stopped pounding in his ears he reached over - turned the light off - and tried to situate himself.

_On the back. No, wait. On the side_. He slipped under the covers and cushioned his bad leg in the fabric.

And his hand began to wander. Cup his face. Feel his throat. He looked the other way as it drifted down his neckline, across his breastbone to touch at the sensitive spot he found there. Pleasant - but not arousing - so he unbuttoned his shirt, running curious fingers into the valley of his stomach.

The cold tingled on his chest, and he curled into the robe for protection. He swallowed hard and whispered, small and anxious:

"Hello, Newton."

No answer. He pushed through his nerves and pecked, one, two, where a forehead should have been. Another for the temple and another for the cheek, before he threw his arm around himself and tipped his head in for the kill.

_Ugh. Terrycloth._ He tried to keep it out. But his mind took off to elsewhere, to wet lips and warm breath, good for something for once besides jeering at him.

"_Ahh_," he continued, burying the collar in the side of his neck - "Newton, _please!_"

Conjecture, he realized. All conjecture. He could handle a little conjecture. He thought of eyes, big and eager, hungry, perplexed when the glasses came off. Scratchy chin. Tousled hair. Those kaiju on his arms that in the daytime seemed so aberrantly awful but tonight, _tonight,_ what a _bad_ boy, how _thrilling_, he kissed faster and harder and his nails dug into his back and -

_Oh._

He fell back to earth and found himself… wanting.

A footstep echoed outside and startled him. He scanned the room between paranoid blinks and fingered his waistband… the drawstring…

_Oh, god, just do it._

Humiliation burned in his ears. His hand closed around his shaft.

He stroked slowly at first. A pull of his palm. A brush of his thumb. He rolled onto his back and imagined being pushed - scaled - mounted. His free arm dragged the robe onto his chest and it became Newton again, squirming, holding onto Hermann's shoulders for dear life as he said… what would he say?

He found the stretch of skin underneath and it came to him.

_Fuck me!_

The thought made him greedy. It filled him with ideas, one lurid image after another. He hissed and favored the spot in time to rocking hips, rubbing flesh, moans stockpiled from the last time Newton concussed himself, teeth in his clavicle _oh_ and pressure in his groin _ahh_ and there it was, he heard it again, _faster faster oh Herms fuck me good_, a flash in the pan of bitten lips and bruised knees and soon he found himself gulping, gasping, once, twice, oh, _god_, he almost- breathe,_ breathe_, no noise Hermann, mouth in the breastpocket, silence,_ silence, mnh, mnnhhh_ as his bad leg cramped, _oh, Newt, I can't, not much longer,_ his knuckles white and his cock red and now slick and now pearly and -

His back arched. His eyes screwed shut. He held a lungful of air as he spilled into his grasp, eight weeks of need draining from his toes.

His vision cleared. The world settled around him. He let the robe slip off his chest and melted around it, working his hand out so as not to stain the blanket.

_Now what?_

A foggy bliss in his frontal lobe told him to experiment. He held his pinky to his tongue - closer - almost licked it clean - before shame seized his gut and sat in it like lead.

_You dirty fool._

He searched the bedside for a handkerchief and made himself decent.

The door hatch clanked. He froze. His head dove under the blanket as it opened an inch at a time.

"_Psst!_" The dreaded voice spat. "_Hermann!_"

He feigned newfound consciousness. "What?"

"You awake?"

"I am now."

"Got me a caudate liver!" The voice raised. "Wanna check it out?"

"What I _want_ is to_ sleep_."

One beat… two… and the door did not close.

"Were you jerkin' it in here?"

Hermann heaved to the other side. "I was_ not-_"

"'Cause, 'cause, I mean." Newt backpedaled. "That's fine!" He held up his hands in surrender. "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do." He descended deeper and deeper into snickers. "Or a… dweeby virgin's gotta do what a-"

"_Newton!_"

Newt started... then shrugged.

"Whatever." He grabbed the hatch with both fists. "Rub one out for victory, man, I'm gonna look at_ livers!_"

The voice faded as it babbled all the way down the hall. Hermann resumed his position and retreated into himself, fingers folding over his shoulder blade and the small of the back of the robe.

And after a hesitant moment he murmured, face pressed to the lapel:

"Good night."


	2. Scene 2

"Marshal," Hermann announced, switching on the channel on the side of his projector. "Good morning."

The voice came through scratchy. "_Afternoon, Dr. Gottlieb_."

Instruments clinked from the other side of the room. "Oh, wait, is that - hey!" Newt cupped his hands to his mouth. "Marshal! How's it goin' on that Ranger?"

"_Poorly_." A roll of thunder. "_But his file states he's alive. He's along this wall somewhere._"

"Well, I _am_ sorry to hear that." Hermann took hold of the conversation before Newt could hijack it. "But what do you need from me?"

_"I'll be back for a while tomorrow, and I want a_ full_ analysis._" Pentecost's tone turned grim. "_On the last event and the next one._"

Hermann leaned in toward the receiver. "Pardon?"

"_LOCCENT is worried the Breach may be widening. Changing form. _Something." Another sheet of rain scrambled Pentecost's voice. "_We're losing track of them, Doctor. I need answers._"

"It's not the _Breach_ that worries me, it…" Hermann returned to his projection - "... remains qualitatively consistent." He pulled up some of his data. "But the kaiju _are_ coming more often, and if I could just find a formula that gives a… satisfying explanation…" He fumbled around for scratch paper. "In fact, I…"

He reached in the desk drawer. Empty.

"Newton, what have you done with my pencils?"

A wet squelch.

"_Newton?_"

"Little busy here…"

Hermann huffed. "A moment, Marshal…"

He switched the projection off and forced himself out of his chair. One foot in front of the other - good, then again - he cast off from his desk and -

His toe caught on his ankle. He flailed and reached for something, anything, his cane, _too far_, the seat, _unstable_, and the floor rose up to meet him, dead weight on cold tile, pain stabbing through his wrists and knees.

"Hermann?" Gloves snapped and chair wheels rattled. "_Hermann!_"

He held his face. "Ugghh…"

Fingers folded over his shoulders. "Are you all right?!"

His hand flew off of his face and tried to slap Newton away. "Leave me alone!"

"Calm down, I'm just trynna -"

"I _said_ leave me _alone!_"

Hermann drew back like a wounded animal. Before his colleague could contest it he rose on shaky arms, grabbed his notebooks, and stormed out, cheeks hot and cane clicking under his skinned hand.

* * *

When the halls cleared for the night shift Hermann slipped out of hiding. He buried himself in the elevator behind a mob of technicians, and crept into the upper break room as the last welder left.

Dim lighting, he judged. Dirty kitchen. One soft chair, stained with something uncontemplatable. But quiet at this hour, and working where he'd slept last night had left him restless.

Every time he looked up in there he saw the bathrobe on the door.

He took the first aid kit off the wall before he slumped into the old upholstery. With both hands he hoisted his foot onto the seat and pushed his trousers over his knee.

It'd bled through again. _Damn._ He popped open the plastic box and tore off the spent bandage, wincing as it went.

_On second thought_ - he considered - _maybe this will be good for you._ His short nails picked at the paper on the fresh one. _Something to think about. Take pleasure in._ He got it free and stretched it over the raw spot. _Instead of worrying._

"Argyle?"

Hermann jumped out of his skin.

"Really, dude?"

_Oh god._

"What is that, like." Newt leaned on the door frame. "Four patterns?"

"That's none of your -" Hermann rolled his pant leg down as fast as he could. "I'm not - Newton, I-" His thoughts fell out like a derailing train - "- are you _following _me?!"

"Huh?" Newt scrunched his nose. "_No_."

Hermann clutched his notebook to his chest. "Well then why are you _here?_"

"Well, Papa Marshal was right, he just got back a minute ago." Newt barged forth. "But between the last event and this whole Ranger deal…" in front of the plastic chairs - "I just _know_ he's gonna be cheesed off." Past the pitted card table. "And you know how he is when he's cheesed off, he goes around doin' that _face_ at everybody…" he made it - "... and he's gotta go by the lab on the way to his stompin' grounds..." around the counter - "... so, long story short, I thought I'd clear out for a while, and I heard from Tendo you were up here." His tracks stopped in front of the refrigerator. "And on top of that I'm hungry."

Hermann crossed his good leg across his bad one to hide the blood spot. "Are you making your own dopamine again?"

"What?"

Hermann gave him _the look._

"Oh." Yellow light flooded the corner as Newt opened the refrigerator door. "Yeah, probably, huh."

Hermann bowed his head and rubbed his knee. Still smarted under bandage and wool. Newt brought out sandwich makings and set to work.

His boot tapped on the cement below him.

"You gonna be up for a while?"

Hermann's eyes closed. "Foreseeably."

Newt looked up from the ham.

"Then you better eat, trooper." His hand fished inside. "You're fadin'."

"I'm not _fading_," Hermann insisted. "Maybe I'm a little _peaky_."

"Yeah, well, see." Newt produced a bread knife and tilted it to admire the sheen. "If you kick the bucket-"

"Newton, I'm not _dying_-"

"- if _you_ kick the bucket, I'm running K-Science by myself." He pulled the bread tie-first toward himself, gesturing with the knife as he spoke. "Which sounds cool on paper, but I actually don't _like_ math, and I got a theory that chalk neutralizes kaiju toxins."

"So you agree."

Newt cut through the cheese wrapper. "What?"

Hermann studied his lap. "That I'm of some use to you."

"Naw, _don't_ start with that!" Newt wagged his free finger as he layered his sandwich. "I know where this is going."

It shook Hermann out of it. "Oh, _do_ you."

"I'm Dr. Gottlieb!" Newt lifted the edge of the bread and pantomimed in the Queen's English. "And I love math so much I'm gonna marry it, and-"

Hermann tossed his head aside. "Oh, for _god's_ sake!"

Newt opened the cabinet above the toaster and sought out a labeled grey box. He paused - checked over his shoulder - good, still distracted - and snatched a tea bag from under the lid.

"What?" He pulled a mug out after it. "It's true." He filled it from the tap. "I don't say stuff that's not true."

"You _exaggerate_ and you _ridicule_, so yes, you might as well."

The microwave hummed. Newt circled the kitchen, heel-toeing to an unheard song. When it finished he yanked out the cup and dropped in the tea bag, ferrying it across the room and presenting it at the old leather chair.

And Hermann blinked. Stared at it. Blinked up at his colleague.

"Is that- "

Newt's eyebrows hiked. "Chamomile?"

"You got into my tea box."

Newt shrugged. "No man left behind."

Hermann hesitated and tried to process. Someone made him tea. _Newton_ made him tea. Chamomile. For sleep.

His gaze sank, and he took it in unsteady hands.

"Thank you."

Newt bounced back to his sandwich. "Really?"

"That was conscientious."

Newt opened his full mouth to talk. "Aw, now you're layin' it on." He stuck his hand in his back pocket and made for the doorway with his prize. "Oh, and - sorry 'bout your pants!"

He disappeared before Hermann could chastise him for noticing.

In the regained privacy Hermann cradled the cup in both palms. He held it to his face and let the steam lick over his eyelids - his brow - his cheeks.


End file.
